


Love Follows Its Own Timeline

by menecio



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blanket Permission, Getting Back Together, M/M, Modern Royalty, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menecio/pseuds/menecio
Summary: Can a professor and a monarch rekindle the flame from their college years during a book launch party? Well, first of all, Bilbo isn’t even aware that there’s something to rekindle—but yes.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 23
Kudos: 120
Collections: Have A Happy Hobbit Holiday 2020





	Love Follows Its Own Timeline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AndyCmorga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyCmorga/gifts).



> I hope you'll enjoy it! I did my best to feature as many of the things you mentioned liking as possible. Have a Happy Hobbit Holiday! 😚💖
> 
> “Love, as most know, follows its own timeline. Disregarding our intentions or well rehearsed plans.”  
>  ― Leslye Walton, _The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender_

Bilbo responded to his RSVP at the last possible minute. He hadn’t meant to let it sit for quite so long, but he had found a myriad of far more pressing things to do for an entire month. Then he had finally glanced at his calendar one morning and realised that the choice to attend would no longer be his if he delayed beyond that day.

So, with an air of great affront that party invitations would have something as dreadful as deadlines, he checked the box indicating that he would attend—unaccompanied—and went to get it posted. He paid for a speed post, too, just for good measure. It wouldn’t do to miss his chance of attending now that he had decided he actually wanted to.

The dawdling might have been slightly intentional on his part. He was, of course, delighted to have been invited to his former student’s book launch party—Ori had been one of the best and brightest to have graced his lecture hall, with a passion for history that resonated deeply with Bilbo’s own academic heart—but the gathering might send Bilbo careening face-first into some uncomfortable situations, especially considering who the book was about.

Bilbo hadn’t, after all, exactly parted on good terms with King Thorin II of Erebor all those years ago.

* * *

As usual, Bilbo talked himself in and out of the plans he had already agreed to for the entire two months that preceded the book launch party. Colleagues and students alike saw him muttering darkly under his breath in the cafeteria and during office hours. Frodo, a first-year at University of Hobbiton, found it so embarrassing that he had taken to pretending he didn’t know Bilbo even though the man had raised him and they shared a surname.

“You’ve already said yes,” Frodo reminded him one evening, cutting off Bilbo’s muttering over the man’s second slice of tiramisu. They had relocated to the small parlour to enjoy dessert in front of the fireplace. The worst of winter was behind them, but they weren’t the sort to pass up the cosiness of a warm hearth. “You’ll look like a diva if you cancel.”

“Aren’t I one?” Bilbo quipped, scraping cocoa-powdered mascarpone up off the plate.

Frodo huffed a chuckle, then continued, “Besides, you do like Ori.”

“I like him well enough, yes,” Bilbo said around his spoon. “It’s the rest of that pompous lot I dislike.”

He was exaggerating, and they both knew it. Bilbo may not like attending ‘pompous’ parties much, but he always enjoyed the opportunity to catch up with old acquaintances in the crowd, not to mention that this event gave him the chance to indulge in a spot of travelling, which he seldom did due to his responsibilities in Hobbiton, both as a professor and Frodo’s guardian. Though, in all fairness, Frodo was a capable young man, so there was little for Bilbo to do on that front. It even felt a little lonely, sometimes.

Perhaps the trip would do Bilbo some good. He told Frodo as much. The lad, kind and patient as he was, simply regaled his uncle with one of his radiant smiles before shovelling an unholy amount of tiramisu into his mouth.

Bilbo made an effort to stop muttering after that.

* * *

The flight from the Shire to Erebor was just under two hours, which meant that Bilbo had a great time ordering snacks from the flight attendant and thumbing through the book he had chosen as his companion for the outbound journey. It was long enough that he could put a dent into the novel’s page count, yet short enough that his bum didn’t risk going numb from all the sitting.

When the plane landed, Bilbo texted Frodo a passing comment about not having dropped out of the sky; then Ori, who had promised to arrange for someone to pick Bilbo up at the airport. It seemed that being the historian chosen to write King Thorin II’s first official biography came with fancy things like assistants.

But it wasn’t an assistant waiting for Bilbo. It was Ori himself.

Now a grown man but still a young lad in Bilbo’s eyes, Ori greeted him the same way he had back when he had studied at University of Hobbiton for a semester: wringing his hands and with a lopsided smile. “Professor Baggins, sir, I’m so glad you could make it.”

Bilbo smiled as he shook Ori’s hand. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

* * *

The book launch party was the following day, which gave Bilbo just enough time to check into his hotel room, have dinner at the restaurant down the street—his Khuzdul remained dreadful, but luckily his waiter had been fluent in Westron—hung up his three-piece suit in the closet, and turn in for the night. A wriggly sort of elation had taken hold of him as he had curled up in bed under a pile of blankets, but his joy had morphed into a bundle of nerves by morning.

There was a very real chance Bilbo would be seeing Thorin that evening, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. He had plenty of reasons to think himself ill-prepared for such an encounter. Perhaps most stupidly, he was terrified of calling the king something other than the proper form of address for someone of his status. Back in their youth, Thorin had welcomed Bilbo’s flaunting of the rules. Most had stuck to calling him His Royal Highness, but Bilbo had called him Thorin. It had been their thing, their little secret in plain sight.

It had felt like the purest form of love.

Calling him Your Majesty would taste like heartbreak.

* * *

Contrary to what his father’s side of the family liked to say, Bilbo had not been raised by wolves. His father had been a perfectly sensible man who had done his best to expose Bilbo to as much classic literature as possible from the safety of their winter garden; and his mother had been perfectly capable of keeping her mountain-climbing gear and other such paraphernalia locked away where Bilbo couldn’t, in theory, get his hands on it and try to scale up to the roof with it.

In theory.

But, no matter how different they had been, Bilbo’s parents had both agreed that punctuality was a habit to be cultivated, and so Bilbo had been raised a timely creature. For this reason, Bilbo was there from the second the book launch party began, dry martini in hand.

He had already greeted Ori, who was doing his best not to faint as he shook hands and accepted compliments. Having done the whole book-launch song and dance a few times himself, Bilbo felt deeply for him. So did Ori’s eldest brother, Dori, whom Bilbo had met only twice before but who thought nothing of joining Bilbo in his corner to gossip.

“He should have worn the puce herringbone I made him last year,” Dori sighed. “He would’ve felt more confident in it. It compliments his hair so beautifully.”

Bilbo hummed and took a sip of his drink. Personally, he believed that Ori would have benefitted from the contrast a navy glen check suit would have provided, not to mention that it would have been a tasteful nod to the House of Durin’s royal colours. But Bilbo wasn’t about to tell Dori as much—clearly, the man had been mortally wounded by Ori’s decision to don a classic tuxedo rather than the suit Dori had tailored for him.

They moved on to other topics—all predictable, none very engaging—until almost half an hour into the gathering, Bilbo made the mistake of looking out into the room and craning his neck.

“Am I boring you?” Dori asked.

“Oh, no, please,” Bilbo waved a hand, chuckling. “Just curious to see who else is here.”

“Everyone who matters, that’s for certain. This is the event of the year,” Dori said, no small amount of pride filtering into his words. He cast Bilbo a calculating glance. “Why? Are you looking for someone?”

Bilbo tittered. “Not particularly.”

But Dori was relentless. He squinted at Bilbo. “You’ve met the King, haven’t you?”

Bilbo felt frozen for a second—a deer in the headlights, as cliché as it sounded. Then the second passed and he could move again. He looked down at his drink, swirling it slowly. “A long time ago, yes.”

Dori hummed, then said, “Well, royalty is always fashionably late. But,” he drawled out, a small smirk adorning his bearded cherubic face, sounding very much like someone who knew a secret but would neither confirm nor deny, “there is one little perk for those of us who arrive on time: you can leave early if you wish.”

* * *

_I should have left early,_ Bilbo thought, panicking at the sight of a far-too-familiar face in the crowd. There had been a great deal of excitement upon the arrival of a small group of people, every single one exuding an aura of unconcerned magnificence that neither tabloid pictures nor official portraits could ever hope to capture.

Bilbo escaped to the restroom. He splashed his face with cold water, trying to think of what to do. No doubt the King and his family would be busy greeting people, posing for pictures with Ori, and perhaps giving a small speech to commemorate the occasion. All Bilbo had to do was wait until he heard a familiar baritone crackling through the speakers and make his exit then. Prince Thorin might have stopped mid-speech to call Bilbo out for trying to tiptoe out of the premises while everyone was distracted, but King Thorin II couldn’t indulge such youthful whims—he would seem shockingly uncouth, not charmingly blunt.

One could argue that Thorin had a penchant for seeming unpleasant—that was certainly how Bilbo had perceived him when they had first met. Bilbo had been gallant and amicable, the epitome of Shire hospitality and good cheer, extending a hand to an exchange student who, in spite of—or perhaps because of—his royal status, had stuck out like a sore thumb. But the crown prince had metaphorically slapped Bilbo’s hand away.

It had taken them the better part of a semester to start getting along. Bilbo liked to think that his wit and charm had worn the king’s defences down. In truth, it had probably been the homemade chocolate truffles and literary canon references.

Bilbo could still quote the classics in his sleep, but he hadn’t made homemade chocolate truffles in about a decade. For some reason, that made what little of his confidence remained desert him. He supposed it was the confirmation, the truth laid bare: that he wasn't now the person he’d been then, that he was much too changed, and that the distance between Thorin and him was truly insurmountable.

Oh, he needed to leave now. He shouldn’t have come. He should have stayed home with his books and his armchair and his nephew, with the old photos and the old memories and the old what-ifs—old friends that he could trust to break his heart in predictable ways.

A knock on the door snapped him out of his whirlpool of doom and gloom.

“Bilbo?” a smooth and clear voice called. “Dori said he saw you come in here. Hello? Come out already, I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Bilbo stood there for a moment, then asked, “Dís?”

“No, Thorin,” she said, tone dry. “Of course it’s Dís! My brother’s busy doing his kinging thing.” She rapped on the door again, this time with strength enough to make it rattle. “Get out here already! I don’t want the papers raving about how I entered the men’s restroom first thing tomorrow. I’d much rather they raved about how one of my sons did something stupid again. PR can handle that much more easily.”

Bilbo hastened to dry his face, then almost jumped out of his skin when a toilet flushed, then a man walked out of a stall. His expression was split between awe and awkwardness. He pointed at the restroom door. “Is that…?”

“A mystery for the ages,” Bilbo said, hurrying to the exit.

The second he opened the door, Dís pulled him out of the restroom and into a tight hug. The thick layer of fur lining her collar got into his nostrils, and he spluttered and coughed until she let him go.

“Stop playing,” she scolded him, smacking his arm.

Bilbo pretended to spit out a hair. “The vegans are going to kill you.”

Dís laughed. “Relax, will you? This isn’t real fur.”

She grinned down at him. Bilbo liked to think that if the gods of War and Love had a baby, it would look exactly like Dís—tall, strong-jawed, with a luscious mane of dark hair, and with two perfect rows of pearly teeth that triggered people’s fight-or-flight response every time she smiled.

“How are you?” he asked. “It’s been a while.”

“A while,” Dís repeated, raising an eyebrow. “It’s been thirty years.”

“Not nearly,” Bilbo said.

“Almost,” she countered.

Bilbo thought about it for a moment, then gave up after remembering that math wasn’t his forte and he had never been good at doing any sort of mental calculations. He had a mobile phone to do those for him. “We’ve talked once or twice,” he said.

They had sent him a letter of condolences after learning about Primula and Drogo’s untimely passing on the news, then mailed him an incredibly ornate gift basket after Ori had finished his semester under his tutelage and returned to Erebor, apparently singing his praises. Bilbo had replied to neither.

She gave him a flat look that seemed to say she was thinking about that as well, then took him by the hand and led him back out into the main room. “Come, let’s get a drink. Have you had any yet?”

“A martini.”

“Which kind?”

“Dry.”

“I like your taste,” she said. “My brother’s busy right now, but you can talk to him later. I’ll keep you company in the meanwhile. Have you met my sons?”

“Er, no,” Bilbo said, following Dís to the bar, far too aware of all the cameras taking pictures of them holding hands and all the people pointing and whispering. “I’ve—I’ve seen them in pictures, of course, but—er, Dís, could you—”

“Here, sit,” she said, letting go of him and pointing at a bar stool. When Bilbo didn’t immediately do as told, she gestured again, pinning him with her stare. “Sit.”

He sat down.

She smiled, then turned to the barkeep. “Two dry martinis.”

The man bowed and moved away to prepare their drinks. Dís sat down then, her fur collar sliding down her arms to reveal it was, in fact, a fur shawl. Its charcoal tones contrasted gloriously against her golden gown.

“So,” she said, propping her chin on the back of her hand, her dark eyes rooting Bilbo to the spot, “tell me how you’ve been.”

* * *

Dís had been right: the launch of King Thorin II’s first—and so far only—official biography meant Thorin spent most of the party talking to reporters, posing for pictures next to Ori and the tables with the book copies on display, and shaking hands with politicians and nobles. Bilbo took to watching him from his seat at the bar, following him as he attended to his duties as an influential monarch. Dís had left him some time before, having introduced him to some close family friends and her two sons—both about Ori’s age, though at different degrees of maturity—and then decided that it was time to go bother her husband.

“It’s the most fun thing to do at these events,” she had explained before draining what was left of her third martini in one go. “You go bother your own man eventually, too, all right? He’s missed you terribly,” she’d said, then she’d sauntered off, barely a wobble to her step, before Bilbo could reply.

Bilbo frowned down at his second and last martini—he had no intention of getting toasted, thank you very much—and turned Dís’s words in his mind. He didn’t understand them. He didn’t understand her, either, or the people she had introduced him to—all of them cousins of theirs, some more distant than others. They had all, unerringly, known about Bilbo. More importantly, they had spoken about how he had been Thorin’s great love, how it had been tragic that the long distance had put an end to their romance, and how Bilbo had been the one that got away.

It was upsetting at best.

That wasn’t how things had happened.

Bilbo hadn’t got away—Thorin had broken things off between them. The long distance hadn’t ended their romance—Thorin had. One Wednesday afternoon, he had looked up from some coursebook or other—Bilbo could never get his subjects right—and had said some tepid thing about his exchange year coming to an end soon and how dating someone five countries away—in secret—would be difficult.

It had been painful, but Bilbo had gone in with his eyes open. He had known—of __course__ he had known—that he couldn’t date the crown prince of Erebor forever. It had still hurt, but he had known. He had been ready. Bracing for impact doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt—it just means it hurts less. Sometimes, it still hurts a lot.

So, he had braced, he had been ready, and he liked to think that he had told Thorin he understood and there were no hard feelings genuinely enough. It had been true. He had loved Thorin too much back then to conjure up any sort of bitterness or venom. And Thorin—he hadn’t been offended, per se, but he had become muffled after that conversation, in a way, had retreated somewhere deep within where Bilbo hadn’t been able to follow.

He had expected to date Thorin until the end, but instead, they had spent those last few weeks apart. Again, it had hurt, and Bilbo hadn’t braced for that. But it hadn’t mattered in the end. Thorin had left, Bilbo had stayed, and they had both moved on as best as they could. Bilbo sometimes indulged in thinking Thorin had got the sweeter deal—Bilbo’s face would never show up on TV or the newspapers. Thorin’s face would, and it did.

It was a good thing Bilbo had never wanted to forget.

But this tale? This story? This tragic star-crossed rubbish? Bilbo was far too much of a Shireling to be up in arms about it, but he was certainly miffed. Perhaps even vexed. Still, he didn’t say anything, preferring to talk about it with Thorin before he started setting poor unsuspecting people right with extreme prejudice.

Which was how he found himself smiling at Thorin when they made eye contact for the first time that evening. He suspected that the king had actually been avoiding Bilbo a little, maybe aware that Bilbo must have already heard about one or two versions of their tragic love story.

The smile was a lure.

_Come forth, O King. I am not hacked off._

But, goodness gracious, life really wasn’t fair, was it? Out of all the topics Thorin and he could discuss after nearly thirty years of almost no contact, the first one would have to be telling Thorin off. But Bilbo wanted to set the record straight about them with the king’s friends, so he would do it. To think that he had been hyperventilating at the mere thought of being in the same room with Thorin just a few hours before, and now he was getting ready to give the king a piece of his mind.

Well. He could blame it on being raised by wolves.

* * *

In the end, Bilbo didn’t have a chance to see Thorin until the event was almost over. He didn't know whether to be glad about it or not. Some part of him had hoped that they would have time to sit down and talk things over throughout the evening, clarify what needed clarifying and reveal what needed revealing. Or perhaps they would be able to quietly bask in each other's presence as they gravitated from group to group discussing the economy and the weather and whatnot.

So, when Thorin finally made his way to Bilbo, a small smile on his lips, Bilbo’s heart almost catapulted itself out of his chest and right into Thorin’s hands (which was inconvenient—he was supposed to be upset with the man).

Bilbo hid his reaction by smoothing down his vest and standing up from the bar. He cursed not having moved somewhere else after ordering a ginger ale—he felt exposed here, and foolish. What could be worse than having your radiant ex find you alone nursing a drink at a bar?

But Thorin didn’t even seem to notice there was a bar. His expression sobered up as he approached, and when they finally were face-to-face, only the minimal polite distance between them, the lines on his face transmitted nothing but regal decorum. Still, his eyes were on Bilbo, and Thorin didn’t seem capable of looking away.

It was a powerful revelation. Even worse, it made Bilbo wonder, and worse still, it made him hope. He was not the sort to think hope foolish—his father had taught him better than that—but he was also not used to believing in things that should—ought—to be impossible. So, he put on his best prim-and-proper smile, the kind he reserved for academic events and distant relatives’ birthdays, and bowed from the neck, the way he’d seen the other guests do.

“Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, and something in his chest twisted painfully.

“Professor Baggins,” Thorin said, and that same thing broke.

 _Don’t speak,_ Bilbo thought. He was a nervous speaker, and giving in to that bad habit would mean the end of him now. He would personally walk in front of a bus if he humiliated himself so thoroughly. Thorin knew, of course, about his tendency to prattle on about nothing in particular, but that was something Bilbo had indulged in doing when Thorin had been a prince—and, more importantly, when Thorin had been his (or as close to his as he could be).

Bilbo managed to stay quiet for all of two seconds before giving in and gesturing around with a flourish. “This is a grand venue,” he said, then immediately wanted to kick himself. “Very charming. My compliments for booking it.”

Thorin gave a slow blink, the barest of frowns appearing on his brow, as though he couldn’t quite parse Bilbo’s words. The twitch of his dark eyebrows drove Bilbo to inspect his face—he had aged, of course he had, but the silver at his temples and crow’s feet etched at the corners of his eyes only made him look more refined and kingly. No one would dare to call him old or past his prime: he looked timeless.

Meanwhile, Bilbo was feeling a little frumpy in comparison. The years had been kind to him as well, but in traditional Shireling fashion—he had put on weight, gained laugh lines, and given up on taming his mop of curls. He was handsome, he knew, but not in any way that might be compatible with Ereborean standards of beauty. He couldn’t even grow a beard, had he wanted to.

Thorin’s reply put an end to his thoughts, “Thank you.” After a beat, he added. “We were pleased to learn that you had accepted the invitation.”

“Well, I was pleased to be invited,” Bilbo said, hooking his thumbs into his jacket’s pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Yes, very pleased. It’s nice to know when one is remembered fondly.” He realised how that might sound an instant after he said it, so he ploughed on, “And hardly any of my former students stay in touch, so this was very nice indeed.”

He didn’t mention that he almost hadn’t come. He pretended he had never tried to find an excuse to avoid making the trip. He thought of Frodo and their cosy home, and he wondered what the boy was doing now, and what he himself might have been doing had he decided to stay. Usually, chilly evenings dictated a cup of tea and a book chapter before bed by the hearth, but he might have been too distracted for that, thinking about Thorin and what might have been if only he’d gone through with his plans.

Thorin smiled, then gestured at the bar stools. “Shall we?”

Ah. So, he _had_ noticed the bar.

“Oh, I’m done drinking for the night,” Bilbo said. “But, er, I can keep you company if you’d like. Your Majesty.”

Thorin pursed his lips, then nodded. They sat down, Bilbo retaking his previous seat. For a moment, the silence was tense—not that it hadn’t been before, but this was a bad kind of tense. The bartender seemed to notice, choosing not to approach and instead hovering at the other end of the bar, waiting to be summoned.

“Thorin is fine,” the king said, glancing at Bilbo before looking away.

The tips of his ears were pink.

Bilbo schooled the grin that threatened to manifest into a small smile. “Then, Bilbo’s fine, too. If it’s all right by you. Why, it should be. Your own sister’s been calling me that all evening.”

Thorin gave a quiet snort, then flagged the bartender. “She mentioned talking to you earlier. Still thick as thieves, I suspect?”

“She remains the unlikeliest friend I’ve ever made,” Bilbo said, resting his chin on a hand. He swirled his ginger ale with the other. Bilbo had met Dís when she had visited Thorin for a week during his exchange year. Seven days had been more than enough time for Bilbo and Dís to become, as Thorin put it, thick as thieves. They had remained in touch after she returned to Erebor, but Bilbo had put an end to their letter-writing once Thorin had also gone back. It had only seemed polite. A clean cut.

Bilbo was now beginning to realise that it might have been anything but.

He tried easing into polite conversation, the same sort of inane chatter he had exchanged with Dori earlier in the evening. Luckily, Thorin was cooperative, and soon they were conversing quietly about safe topics. Bilbo wasn’t particularly interested in talking about the weather with Thorin, but a little small talk might help lighten the mood and rescue them from whatever misplaced jitters they were experiencing. It wouldn’t do for the cameras to catch King Thorin II acting shy and uncertain around a mousey little academic from a farming country.

It was highly probable that there would be gossip the next day no matter what they did. Bilbo was, to put it mildly, loud about his status as a gay man, and the dust of Thorin’s own coming-out speech had settled about two decades before. Just their sitting together at a bar would get hyperactive minds thinking. Bilbo was tempted to shrug it off and just let them talk, but the idea of being involved in that sort of speculation, however unfounded, was not as amusing as it should have been. He had Frodo to think of, and how the lad’s life might be affected if people decided Bilbo—and thus him, by association—were worth bothering.

“Well,” Bilbo said, pushing away his empty glass. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?”

Instead of answering, Thorin hummed. His eyes were twinkling, of all things. “Still early to bed and early to rise? I remember you’d wake me—”

“Oh, you shouldn’t be saying that here,” Bilbo said, eyes flitting about.

Thorin frowned at him. “I’m not saying anything… incriminating.”

“People will still talk. People will already talk.”

“People always talk,” Thorin said. “So, if they will talk, I would at least have it be so because I talked with you. But if you want me to leave—”

“No! Goodness, no,” Bilbo laughed, then began tracing the edge of his glass with a finger. “It’s not that. It’s just—you know, I’m supposed to be cross with you.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rose up. “You are?”

“Supposed to,” Bilbo said, smiling ruefully. “Failing to.”

“What did I do to deserve your attempts at crossness?” Thorin asked, squinting as he thought. “We haven’t said much of substance so far.”

Bilbo shook his head. “It’s not about what we’ve said to each other. It’s about—well—I’ve met your cousins. Distant cousins? Some form of cousins. I’m not sure what the relation between you is.”

Thorin began to look worried, which Bilbo suspected to mean the king probably had an idea as to where Bilbo was headed. “Balin?”

“And Dwalin. And there was this man with his wife—Glóin, I believe, and his brother, Óin.” This was all superfluous information, but old habits die hard, and Bilbo was a nervous talker. “I think his son is friends with Ori, and even more of a ginger. No surprise there! Both of his parents look like lit matchsticks.”

“Ginger hair is common in Erebor,” Thorin said, having apparently fallen back into the tactic of making harmless trivia comments to distract Bilbo from whatever storm was brewing inside him. It was nostalgia at its finest, Thorin doing something that showed he still knew Bilbo so well.

It only made Bilbo succeed in mustering up his vexation.

“Yes, well, all of them had some very interesting comments to make,” Bilbo said, looking up from his empty glass to stare at Thorin. “About you and me and what happened all those years ago. Tell me, Thorin, would you describe yourself as the pining sort? Because that’s what they made you sound like.”

Thorin rubbed the back of his neck, averting his eyes. “Pining might be a bit much.”

“Thought so as well, yes.” Bilbo gave an offended little sniff, then added, “And what about me? I’m not The One That Got Away. If anything, you left. How does that make me The One That Got Away? Don’t you think, if anything, it’d be the other way around?”

“What?” Thorin blinked at him. “No, that’s—”

“And you broke up with me,” Bilbo said, no longer caring who listened. “You did.”

Utter silence greeted his statement. Not a sound came from Thorin, who seemed to have turned to stone in front of him. He looked, of all things, betrayed. Bilbo almost burst out laughing. His hands were shaking. There wasn’t enough air in the room, in the world, to fill his lungs.

Were he prone to drama of the highest and tackiest kind, he would be inclined to say that he was the one who’d suffered a betrayal. But this was the real world, not a soap opera, and having your feelings hurt didn’t necessarily mean whoever had done it was a traitor, or even a bad person. It had been years, and so much had happened, but Bilbo still understood.

Thorin began to say something, but Bilbo interrupted him, “It’s fine, Thorin. It’s always been fine. I get it. I do. But I would rather not be turned into some kind of Shakespearean character in a doomed love story. That’s not what happened.”

“No, it’s not,” Thorin agreed, but he sounded distant, as though he were actually very far away inside his mind, tending to complex thoughts. He blinked, then repeated with more certainty, “It’s not.”

Bilbo was a bit confused by the sudden earnestness, but he nodded. “Well, I’m glad you agree—”

“No,” Thorin said. “I don’t agree. Bilbo, I didn’t break up with you.”

Bilbo squinted at him. “Did, too.”

“Did not! You broke up with me!” Thorin said, somehow managing to keep his tone hushed. “I told you I was going back to Erebor and that I’d like to try having a long-distance relationship with you—”

“Oh, you did absolutely not say that!” Bilbo hissed under his breath. “You said long-distance relationships were a hassle.”

“No, I was acknowledging that a long-distance relationship would be difficult,” Thorin corrected, his expression keen enough to make him look mad, “but I was more than willing to try.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, then closed it. Then he said, “Well, you phrased it horribly, then!”

“I did my best!” Thorin defended himself. “We can’t all be Westron literature experts.”

“Your _best_? You said, and I quote, ‘I don’t think I can do it.’ You literally said that!” Bilbo did start laughing then, not even trying to pretend otherwise. It was all too absurd, and he was also maybe panicking. “In what universe does that not sound like you are breaking up with someone? Does ‘I hate you’ mean ‘I love you’ there, too?”

“I was nervous! I didn’t want to make a mess of things between us, no matter your reply.” Thorin sighed and rubbed his eyes, then the spot between his eyebrows. “It seems I failed.”

“Oh, just about utterly so,” Bilbo chuckled, wiping tears of amusement from the corners of his eyes. His heart was thrumming like a hummingbird in his chest. He placed a hand over it to try and still it, almost certain that Thorin could hear it.

“All these years…” Thorin said, looking betrayed again, but this time by himself.

“They’ve been good years, haven’t they?” Bilbo said, placing a hand on Thorin’s arm, halting whatever dark thoughts were beginning to gather in Thorin’s mind. He took a deep breath, willing his heart to slow down. “We’ve raised our respective nephews, taught our respective people, done our respective things. We’ve led our respective lives.”

Thorin seemed to consider this. After a moment, he said, “And now we’re here.”

Bilbo smiled, dimpled and radiant. “So we are.”

Thorin’s shoulders sagged slightly at that, his ramrod-straight giving way to something a little more organic. The king had been tense from the very moment they had sat down. Bilbo was so distracted by that realisation that he almost jumped out of his skin when Thorin’s warm hand moved to rest on top of his.

“No lost time, then?” Thorin murmured, looking down at where their fingers overlapped. “Only time spent doing other things, living our lives?”

“Yes,” Bilbo replied. “And besides, you know what they say about good things and waiting.”

Thorin smiled and looked up. “No more waiting now.”

Bilbo beamed at him. “I know I said I was done drinking for the night, but,”—he used his free hand to wave the bartender over—“my dear, I will toast to that.”


End file.
